


Nobody Else’s Queen

by Rosage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Asra route endgame, F/M, Friends to Lovers, ensemble appearances - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Naming Julian court physician lets Nadia reconnect with an old friend and banish shared demons. She doesn't anticipate their new closeness, or how finding a caring partner can feel.





	1. Nothing to Hide

Nadia sprawls across her chaise lounge, breathing in her tea’s licorice-scented steam while Julian describes the blend. "It's the best I know for a sore throat, without being horribly unpleasant, that is."

Nadia thanks him, glad for that caveat, as the tickle in her throat only comes from that morning's speech. He remains standing beside her, looking concerned anyway. Ordinarily, she won’t let others fuss over her. But ever since naming Julian as her court physician, she's found herself calling for him during strained or idle moments. And what else is it appropriate to summon a physician for beyond a headache or other malady? It won’t do to compromise his new position with accusations of biased appointments.

They are alone now, however, and his comfort matters more. She swings her legs off the chaise lounge and pats its velvet cushion. "Have a drink, Doctor."

"I couldn't," he murmurs, but he sits. He tucks his long legs awkwardly out of her way while he pours himself a cup. "You were marvelous this morning, Countess. The crowd held onto your every word."

That’s hard to believe. Portia holds the people's attention better, but they deserve to hear from their countess. "As long as they trust in our efforts for clean water, I suppose that's all that matters."

"With all due respect, they believe in _you_ , and you can accomplish that and more."

Unlike the now-distance crowds, his faith at her side can’t be dismissed. " _We_ can. We have quite the team assembled."

"Of course, Milady. We'll support you however we can."

His infectious smile has no cure. This is why she keeps calling for him, even when not in need of his service. Her finger traces the rim of her cup.

"You may call me Nadia, you know. You did when we were friends before, did you not?"

She can almost see a vision playing out as he reacts to new memories, a stage performance of expressions crossing his face. He rubs his temples. "That's right. You asked me to after that, uh, night in the fountain."

She remembers the question, if not the whole night. If only Asra weren’t traveling with his love, the group could make fresher memories—not that she begrudges him the well-earned vacation. "I figured the three of us had little left to hide."

He matches her arched brow. She sips her tea, thinking of how untrue that turned out to be.

* * *

Lucio's wing's has sat abandoned since the investigation. It only shows up in Nadia’s nightmares, where a shadow swallows hers and crumbles into ash. She itches to throw out every portrait and gaudy bauble, to hang so many lights that nothing can hide, but there's no time. She refuses to prioritize his memory, even erasing it, over helping the city.

That is, until she spends an afternoon tensing up next to a statue in the library, leading Julian to comment on it. "Awful-looking thing, isn't it? Is that supposed to be a goat or a naked mole rat?"

She manages a smile. "I hadn't noticed it." But she had, and she becomes aware of Julian drumming his fingers as he eyes not only the statue, but also the hidden entrance to the underground dungeon. Scrubbing the palace of old demons no longer seems like an ill use of time.

She enlists Julian to help remove and, when possible, burn the contents of Lucio's wing. Gaudy clothing, sloppy documents, half-shredded curtains. She clutches her forehead. That’s right; he destroyed their belongings whenever she ‘deigned’ to pay attention to Asra and Julian rather than him. As if they weren’t the ones asking after her health and subjects she cared about.

While hurling the curtains might be therapeutic, she drops them into the fire without letting sparks fly or otherwise creating an impressive display. They aren’t worth it.

The crackle satisfies her nonetheless. When the fire bleaches Julian’s face, she leads him away to discuss options for new furniture.

The basement dungeon proves more of an ordeal. "I understand if you don't want to go,” she tells him. “I can have those further removed from the situation deal with it."

"Don't be silly. I'm the court physician. If there's something down there that could—that could make anyone sick, or any dangerous tools, I'm the first one who should examine them."

Ultimately, they enter alone. They descend through tunnels as ominous as she could expect. The rock feels unstable under her heels, which clack sharply without an echo. The path seems to stretch to the center of the earth.

Instead, they find ground in front of a lift. Nadia narrows her eyes at the plaque's warning. "Honestly, did my former court have nothing better to do than be dramatic?"

That seems like it could elicit a self-deprecating quip, but Julian is silent and as white as his new uniform. It's usually a good color on him, making him look crisp and slightly less washed out. It doesn't help now.

The protective gear they don hides his pallor. Once suited up, Nadia enters the beetle-shaped key into the lock.

"Wait, Nadia, I should—"

The door swings open. She steps onto the metal platform. "That warning is all theatrics, and my palace is not a stage. Are you coming?" 

He stands still, the mask hiding his usual reactions from view, before stumbling after her. She pulls the lever, and with a metallic screech, they fall.

* * *

Even with the mask, the rotten stench assaults her. It's not so disgusting as the leather straps buckled to the table or the cages stacked against the walls. Frayed straps and dented bars document final resistance.

Nadia waits for memories of the dungeon to resurface. None do.

"I have truly never been here," she says. "So many atrocities beneath my very floors, while I slept in ignorance."

Beside her, Julian doesn't move, other than his quivering arms crossed over his chest. There's no point in asking if he's all right. Determined to get this over with, she strides toward a table laden with tools. Some are stained, the others somehow eerier in their pristineness, leaving a mystery as to what had to be cleansed.

He lurches after her. "Wait, please don't touch anything! It could be infected," he says.

"Is that not what the gloves are for?" Nonetheless, she stays her hand. "I promise not to be careless. By all means, you're the expert." 

Mumbling under his breath, he inspects metal instruments before collecting them in containers etched with protective spells. They continue their sweep of the room. Despite her desire to learn, she only asks Julian necessary questions. He already looks like he wants to put himself in a container of Valdemar's tools.

When the surfaces have been dealt with, Julian approaches a pit in the corner. He pulls a lever beside it with a trembling hand.

Nothing surfaces. Nadia pokes her head over what could be a dry well. "It's empty."

"Of course," he mutters. "Of course, the beetles are gone." He removes his mask, pitches over the pit, and vomits.

When he's done, he remains clutching the edge. She crouches to rub his back, trying not to think about how the space will require even more scrubbing.

"I am sorry, Julian."

"I'm sorry," he echoes. "I'm so sorry." He repeats it like a mantra. Unsure of how else to help, she keeps a hand between his shoulder blades.

"I think we've seen enough," she says, rising. Rather than help Julian banish his demons, she may have plunged him among their ghosts. When he wobbles to his feet, she offers support, which he's slow to accept. He apologizes again as he leans into her.

"There's one more place I should look," he says. Despite everything, he seems determined. She nods in respect.

He directs them to one of the rooms along the side. The 'office' might as well be a prison cell, but his books and trinkets make it slightly cozier. He scoops up a quill holder and cradles it against his chest.

"Pasha gave this to me when we were young, when I said I wanted to learn to write. I thought—I thought I'd lost it." He sounds ready to cry, the vulnerability contrasting with the mask he put back on. A seed of tenderness plants in Nadia's chest.

"She will be glad you have it," she says. Realizing her mask hides her smile, she pats his elbow. He scoops up the rest of his belongings and scans the empty cell.

"I was locked in here, the night of the fire," he says. She waits for elaboration. Instead, he takes out an implement and breaks the lock on the door. "Excuse the property damage," he says, for once not sounding sorry. She isn't, either.

* * *

As the days pass in the library, Julian stops looking over his shoulder, and Nadia can focus on their projects. Aisha and Salim’s refreshing competency helps. Their bond only strengthens their effectiveness, as each brings their own specialties to solutions, and without fail one catches what the other misses.

"You just want to see if you can build that," Aisha says in challenge to one of Salim's diagrams. "Aren't there less complicated ways to move water?"

"Guilty as charged." He smiles at her before catching Nadia's eye. "Er, sorry, Countess. I suppose that was a waste of time."

"Hey, I'd want to see it," Julian says. "It would make a fun ride, with some modifications." As if seeking Nadia’s approval, he directs this to her, though his grin betrays the joke.

"The next time I create a festival committee, you'll both be appointed,” she says. “If we could please continue?"

Salim sets aside his diagrams to return to their map. As they lean over it, his shoulder brushes Aisha's. They never make a spectacle of their love, but they constantly inhabit the same space, like it's as casual as sharing air. On the other side of the table, Nadia stands apart from Julian, the distance as tangible as the wooden table her hands twist upon. Even those less clumsy than him give her a wide berth for fear of accidentally touching a countess.

"What do you think, Countess?" Julian asks. He still addresses her as such in others' company, to her current chagrin. She tries to focus. Luckily, after her memory loss, she practiced pretending to understand. She taps a finger near the map while she studies the messy shape he drew around a district.

"Yes, I believe that is a good place to start, if our magicians agree," she says.

Rather than returning to the map, Julian studies her. "Do you need a break?"

Covering up a moment of distraction shouldn't be difficult. Lucio certainly paid so little attention to her wellbeing that it would never have mattered. Then again, whereas he cared for nothing but himself, Julian cares for everyone _except_ himself.

Not that there’s a need to compare them.

"Do you?" she counters. "I'm quite all right."

Nonetheless, a break arrives in the form of Portia bearing refreshments. Trays of snacks and beverages float around her like loyal pets, carrying more than she could have. They all exclaim at the sight, even Aisha and Salim, making Nadia think this is the first time Portia has pulled off levitation. Knowing her, she practiced in private to impress them. Though her dedication isn’t news, Nadia beams at her right hand nonetheless.

Julian beams even brighter. Nadia expected him to be antsy about his sister practicing magic, but despite his initial concern, he's constantly bragging about her talents. _I knew she had it in her to be a world-class magician all along,_ he tells anyone who will listen.

Just as the trays arrive at the table, one wobbles. Portia gasps, breaking her concentration. She manages to catch one; Nadia grabs a second, saving its contents from spilling onto the floor; and Julian knocks against her as he dives for the third.

Both Devoraks apologize at once. "I finally had it, too," Portia groans, prompting Aisha and Salim to soothe her. With that role taken, Julian seems momentarily at a loss. He pats Nadia's elbow where he bumped her.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks.

He didn't, but some part of her wants to request an examination. She banishes the idea. It hardly seems fair.


	2. Theatrics

After the dungeon is scrubbed and sealed for good, the gaps in Nadia’s knowledge bother her more than ever. Rather than remain sheltered in her palace, she often patrols the city. Those she meets seem uncomfortable; she never manages to blend in, even when she forgoes a retinue. It leaves her with the sense she remains ignorant.

When she admits this to her friends, the Devoraks make it their mission to disguise her. The morning's preparations drag on, but they’re both having such fun she can't bring herself to rush them. They squabble over costume options, with Portia striking down some of Julian's more dramatic ideas, until finally Nadia wears pants and a simple green tunic. In case the scarf around her head doesn't hide her, she dons a cloak. 

Portia steps back to inspect her with a clap. "That oughta do it! You’re ready to knock'em dead, milady. You know, in a casual, mysterious stranger way."

"Absolutely," Julian says. "The tavern's loveliest mirage. They'll sing of you for weeks, anonymously, that is."

Despite her plain costume, admiration shines through their teasing. "Oh, you both," Nadia says, a hand to her chest. "I don't intend to cause a stir."

They both look dubious but don't comment. The final touch is a knife hidden in the folds of Nadia's cloak—not her preferred weapon, but less conspicuous. Besides, a blade is a blade.

"I'll hold down the fort here. Don't worry about a thing, okay?" Portia says. She rounds on Julian. "Ilya, I swear to our grandmas' grandmas, if you let anyone hurt a hair on her head—"

"Do not worry, Portia," Nadia says. "I'll ensure your brother's safe return."

Portia looks taken aback before she winks. "Oh, I don't doubt it. Have fun, you two."

* * *

No matter how much Nadia hates being distant from her people, she'll never get used to the marketplace’s throng. She throws back her head, refusing to let those jostling her impede her progress. If she is slow, it is only to take in every detail: what news people spread, which goods they buy, which goods they can't afford. How many can't afford anything at all.

Fighting not to be separated from her, Julian offers an arm, an anchor that Nadia takes. He bends down to whisper, "If we really want to blend in, we shouldn't look like we're on a mission."

"What gave it away?"

"Your focus could light a fire on the other side of the street. Remember, we come here to shop all the time. We don't need to take everything in."

Pretend not to learn, without compromising her learning? "I suppose this is why you're the actor."

"You'll be a natural," he says, patting the hand that rests in his elbow. The casual assurance makes her feel less like a countess; nobody here cares who touches her, or what gossip they can spin it into. She tries to hunch as Portia showed her earlier, though it makes her yearn to stretch.

For once, she is not the one commanding everyone's attention. Julian greets people like a beloved mayor. Some must be patients, whereas others reference the theater or current events. A certain man would seethe with jealousy. For her part, Nadia enjoys the reprieve, although her hold on him tightens when he drifts from their path.

In between partial sentences to her and others' interruptions, his gaze lingers on various stalls. An urge grips her to buy him the whole market, to see which way that candid face of his stretches at the gesture. Only the fact that they're meant to be observing, not influencing, stays her purse. 

However, if they're meant to be blending in, a little shopping shouldn’t hurt. He inspects a set of quills that, while less flashy than those in the palace, complement the stand Portia gave him. Nadia's purchase of it makes him stutter for a minute. She isn't sure if she wants to buy him more things out of amusement, or so that he gets used to it.

In the middle of their excursion, he spies some ingredients he's supposed to pick up for a friend. Absently, Nadia offers to cover that as well. His refusal feels less like a token protest.

"I, uh, I appreciate your generosity, but she's my own grandmother, practically, and she gave me a list, I should really…"

_Ah_. Just because he works for her doesn't mean she's in charge of his life. "I did not intend to overstep." She shifts gears away from herself. "You and Portia have a grandmother in town?"

"She was Grandma Lilinka's girlfriend. Tough, has all the best stories. You'd probably get along."

"I should like to meet her, then."

"We could drop these off now, if that won't, ah, interrupt your day."

"Not at all. You were the one who said not to treat this like a mission." In truth, if her goal is to learn about things that matter, the Devoraks certainly qualify.

He guides her to a quieter neighborhood, where he strides up to a lopsided little house. Chickens patrol the lawn like some sort of alarm system. "Oh, my, what nice birds," Nadia says, standing still for their inspection. Julian bends to pet one and has to jerk away from its beak.

The door unlatches, and a scratchy voice carries. "Not vaulting through my window anymore, Ilya?"

He straightens, his bags swinging on his arms. "Mazelinka! Don't be silly, the court physician doesn't need to vault through any windows. Oh, I _love_ what you've done with your hair."

"That had better not mean you forgot my list." She turns her attention to Nadia. Julian starts.

"This is my, er, friend, ah—"

"I know who she is. Hello, it's always nice to have Ilya's friends over. Be dears and feed the chickens while I finish the soup."

"Mazelinka, dear, you can't just—"

"Of course. I don't intend to be a burdensome guest," Nadia says.

"We just came to drop off—"

Mazelinka shuts the door before Julian can finish.

"I like her already," Nadia says. Julian smiles weakly and retrieves the grain. The chickens’ squawks join the flow of the nearest canal, relaxing Nadia. Birds never expect anything in particular of her.

It makes her miss Chandra. They only wander together through the palace gardens; such a magnificent owl would draw attention.

Still, lunch does not lack for companionship. Mazelinka tells stories of small Devoraks climbing all over her back, as well as a young Julian's dreams of becoming a great doctor. It’s not hard to picture him, overgrown for his age, operating on hurt birds and broken toys—trying to fix things, even then. A raven perches like a guard in the windowsill. When he starts to make a fuss, Julian speaks to him and strokes his head until he settles. Nadia settles, too, even though she is not sure of her etiquette.

"The palace would love to have you," she says as they prepare to leave. Mazelinka waves her hand.

"Who has a palace?" she asks with a wink. "Let me know when you're coming, and I'll whip up a spinach pie."

It's difficult to leave the home's welcoming glow, especially when Julian seems so at peace, but they still have a day ahead of them.

* * *

The day ends with a trip to the Rowdy Raven, which Julian dares her to try, on the condition that she not report a word to the guards. The bartender strokes his beard when Julian strolls up.

"Been a while, Jules. That new job finally fall through?"

"Sorry to disappoint the betting pool, but no. Just showing a friend a good time."

_The betting pool_. Is that a joke, or does nobody expect him to keep his appointment? They can't discuss it here—he'll simply have to prove everyone wrong. The bartender eyes her, and she holds his stare.

"His 'friend,' hm? Be careful with that one," he tells her with a wink. "Give the old couple at the card table a shout if he's trouble."

"I'm quite capable of taking care of myself," she says. His forehead scrunches.

"We'll have a round of salty bitters, for old time's sake," Julian cuts in, and leads her to a corner booth. He surveys their surroundings before leaning in. "This might be a good place to not be yourself, if you catch my drift."

"Have I not been doing that already?" His expression says everything. She flushes and fiddles with her belt. "I see. I must do better." She spots the women the barkeep mentioned. One throws down her cards and stands, a little wobbly, to join the other in a dance. They sway to the upbeat music coming from the opposite corner. Nadia turns back to Julian with a smile. "Shall we 'cut the rug,' as they say?"

Every emotion seems to cross his face at once. "You're extremely charming, but it's, uh, not quite there."

She leans back with a sigh and sips her drink, finding it to match the name. She's not surprised it's his old standby. "Clearly, I have too much to learn in one day."

"Improvisation takes practice. If you want, we could switch to a language not many here know."

"An excellent idea. I'm out of practice with some of them." As they cycle through a few, he looks increasingly entertained. "Is something funny?" she demands.

"Oh, no, it's just—it's probably a good thing we don't get many people from Drakr. Your speech is still formal."

"I admit, most of my language lessons were not conducted through casual conversation. I assume you picked up much while traveling?'

"You have to learn fast when you're tricking diplomats."

"I beg your pardon?"

He sets down his tankard a little too hard. "Band's pretty good, isn't it?"

"Indeed. I meant the invitation to dance, you know," she says. It comes out more shyly than she intends. So many of the dances in her life have been routine, an obligation for both parties, whether due to lessons or tradition. Julian doesn’t have to say yes, which makes her heartbeat spike when he stands and offers a hand.

She leads him in a tango from wall to wall, finding him as proficient as he is dramatic. He follows her every step, her every touch, as warm and reliable as a fire. The dances switch with the music, as if they're challenging each other to different styles. His sharp features glow in the torchlight. They seem to soften when he looks at her, though it might be a trick of the light—before she can study him, his smooth cheek presses against hers, or she rolls him away and reels him back into her arms.

She can't remember the last time she laughed so freely, or the last time someone's face was so close to hers, let alone with a feeling of complete safety. They dance until she all but forgets who she is or why she's there.

* * *

Nadia's carefree bubble, as frothy as a tankard, stays with her while they exit the tavern. A man who follows them bursts it.

"Real funny you came back now," he says, his voice slurred with liquor. Julian tenses against Nadia, keeping his tone casual as he glances over his shoulder.

"What can I say? Only so much you can rub elbows with nobles before you need a drink."

She doesn't take it personally, but she wonders how true it is. More pressing concerns arise when the man spits at them. "Don't talk down to me, you filthy spy."

"I'm not—"

The man gives no room for rebuttal. He lurches toward Julian, and Nadia disentangles herself to grab the man's swinging arm. "That's quite enough," she barks. The man widens his one visible eye before narrowing it with a snarl. His free hand reaches in his cloak just as Julian yells a warning.

Grasping for her own weapon, Nadia steps between the man and Julian. The assailant strikes. She parries his knife in a clash of steel. Her focus remains steady as she jabs, a distraction while Julian sneaks behind the man.

Julian grabs the attacker in a headlock, only for an elbow to slam his gut. He buckles, his grip loosening. Fire fuels Nadia’s strike.

She miscalculates. She's not used to fighting in such close quarters, and the man's blade scrapes her arm as he evades her. Hissing, she whirls to knee him. He drops his weapon, and the pair grapples him.

Julian's teeth flash dangerously. "Well? What's his punishment?"

"That's not for us to decide," she says. Her new trial system still needs fine-tuning, but assault was among the first precedents. At Julian's request, they haul the man some distance from the Rowdy Raven before turning him over to a guard.

When they are again alone, she clutches her stinging arm. "I can't believe I let a drunkard get in a hit."

Julian's mouth falls open. "You're hurt? Why didn't you say something? Are you all right?" The crack in his voice doesn't befit a doctor who's seen worse.

"It's only a scratch."

"Still, we need to take care of it. It could get infected, you could—"

"What's the safest place to rest?"

"My place is nearby."

They start the trip, with him glancing at her arm until she snaps for him to watch where he's going. She's still berating herself for being so sloppy; Nahara would have managed a clean fight. Julian punctuates his wobbly steps with curses. Her gaze drops to his abdomen. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I should have been more careful, I should never have taken you there, oh..."

She sucks a breath through her teeth. She'll set the matter straight once they're inside.

With the belongings stacked on his desk chair, the only place to sit in Julian's one room is the bed. Its sheets are rustled and half-falling off the mattress, like they were thrown aside. Nadia perches at the edge and removes her cloak while Julian rustles around for his medical supplies.

"Where does it hurt?" There's still a tremor in his voice, though with a kit in hand his movements become more routine. She rolls up her sleeve to show him the cut. Now that she's focused on it, she realizes her arm is throbbing, and the blood smeared across her skin and clothes looks more dramatic than it is.

"Good, good, I won't have to amputate it," Julian says.

"I should hope not!" 

"Forgive the caution. I've sawed off a few too many limbs in my day." His already grey eye glazes at the thought, though his lips twist in the sardonic way Nazali's do when recalling such things.

"I suppose I understand why you reacted so intensely, if you thought it would be worse." It still doesn't seem professional. Is he really up to his post, with how much his work already haunts him? His reaction to the dungeon casts a shadow over her heart. Has she hurt him with the promotion, especially given the rift between him and his old haunts?

"Ah, it wasn't just that. Now, I'm going to start by cleaning this. I know it's messy, but I promise it won't look like much when I'm done."

She lets him focus on the task at hand, finding her concerns about his capability unfounded. Most who tend to her do it with care, but Julian washes her arm with an extra layer of tenderness. Despite his recent scare, he describes each step without his usual stutter, reciting words he's used hundreds of times. He checks her face for confirmation as he does. It's not enough to stop her from hissing when he applies a solution to the wound.

With the bandage snug around it, he leans back, though his hands hover near her elbow. "I can't heal it like I could with my, ah, old powers. It’s not worth stitches. We'll have to ask Salim to take a look."

She rotates the arm, trying to curb soreness. "Thank you, Doctor."

"It's nothing, Countess." As he says her title, strain returns to his voice. "Can I, uh, get you something to drink?"      

He bounces his leg, looking furtively between her and his dirty floor. He picks up a wig and plays with its curls.

"Please," she says. "Whatever you have."

Tossing the wig aside, he leaps up to rummage through his cabinet. Her thoughts drift as she watches. "What did you mean, when you said it wasn't just that?" she asks.

"What wasn't just what?"

"The reason you seemed so startled."

A bottle slips from his grasp. He catches it just in time. "Ah, who wouldn't be? You were hurt defending me."

"I had no intention of letting that man have his way. Are you afraid of what Portia will do to you? I told her I'd return you in one piece."

He pours a few thimblefuls of a murky liquid into a murkier glass. "It's not that, it’s—it's my job to keep you healthy, and I—"

"And you are doing so now, are you not? It is _not_ your job to keep me wrapped in silk, away from the world. That was the opposite of the point of today, in fact." She thought he understood that when he agreed to escort her, to expose her to things most would think she should avoid—despite the now-apparent risks to himself. "Speaking of which, I had no idea your position was affecting your old associations. I should have guessed."

"Oh, I've dipped my toes in all sorts of affiliations. Let's just say some have ended better than others." He hands her the glass and watches as she knocks it back. The burn in her throat contorts her face; clearly it's meant to distract from pain rather than be the joy of the party. He sits next to her again, drooping. "Nadia, I'm truly sorry. I know you can handle yourself in a fight, but I still wanted to show you a nice day."

Softening, she manages a smile. "I have had a nice day."

"You, you have?"

"Indeed. It's been a while since I've had such fun. Shopping, meeting your friends, dancing.... Even the low points were illuminating."

He seems as startled by the list as the declaration, as if he’d already wiped all of the day's positive parts from his mind. They seem to sink in when he returns her smile.

"It was fun, wasn't it? Too bad you didn't get more liquor in me. I'd be dancing on the table."

"Oh? I shall have to request a special performance later," she says. She takes in the props strewn around his home, which resembles the backstage of a community theater more than a living space. Even the books and medical supplies are limited, with how much he's moved to the palace. Portia berates him for pulling all-nighters in the library, and Nadia offers him guest rooms, but it's starker seeing his place packed up.

"It's a long commute to the palace, isn't it? I said you were welcome to move in," she says.

Having poured himself a glass of that foul liquid, he almost coughs it up. "I, uh, wanted to give you a chance to change your mind." He looks ruefully at her injury.

"Change my mind? My last physician was Valdemar, of all people, and not of my own accord. Have a little more faith in my judgment."

"Oh, er, my apologies."

Withholding a sigh, she pats his hand. "Of course you are welcome to have a place outside the palace. I only wish you to know you're welcome not to, as well. Though I admit, I had hoped you were committed to your position. It is… A comfort, to work beside a friend."

After fumbling conversations that day, she's especially self-conscious of her wording, not sure if she's getting across all she means to. For better or worse, it still seems to affect Julian. "I—I'm glad. Committed, even. Especially committed. You just, ah, don't need to go out of your way for me."

"There is a vacancy in my old husband's quarters. You'd be doing me a favor."

He flushes down to his neck, a fascinating enough sight that she doesn't retract the implication.

"I couldn't—a count's..."

"It's not a count's anything anymore, is it? And you had as much a hand as anyone in fixing it up. That said, it is only an offer. Think on it, if you wish."

Julian looks at her in his careful way before scanning his place, with all its things in stacks and crates. Absently he strokes the scratchy sheet. "I don't really need to," he says.


	3. Clicking Into Place

The belongings Julian moves in with don’t fill his new closets. Nadia rectifies this, turning him as red as the lobster on his plate and his new silk shirt. With the way he exclaims at the quality of it all at dinner, in between regaling the other guests with his life story, one would think he adjusted perfectly. It's a role like any other he plays, as he reveals in private by staring into his Golden Goose.

“I can’t,” he protests when she lends him blue ink for a letter. “It’s wasted on me, I’d just make a mess, I don’t…”

Seeing him struggle to finish his sentence, she swallows her own arguments. “It is your choice,” she says, and hands him black ink instead.

In public, he alleviates the pressure on her with his eagerness to talk to anyone and everyone. She keeps him at her side at parties, where she must greet many people with whom she is not as comfortable—and somehow, others seem more comfortable around her, as well. He even delights her sisters during their visits. These days, she finds it easier to talk to them herself, but she still looks on fondly as he asks Nasmira about her dog sanctuary and falls for Natiqa's tricks. If any jealousy bubbles up, she squashes it.

After all, it is not as if she invites him as her date. It is simply prudent for him to land there. There’s no reason to think he will leave Vesuvia, except possibly with Nazali, who deserves a trip with their old student.

Luckily, plenty seems to keep him. While they make progress with providing clean water for the city, her people have other needs, food and education and opportunities. Though she refuses to empty her coffers for parties, she still opens events and dinners to everyone, so they may share in the hope she tries to provide them.

As for Julian, Nadia lends him her private book collection, and they discuss Prakran folklore over breakfast; as for Portia, she skips down the halls with objects floating behind her at all times, simply because she can; and as for Aisha and Salim, they start new projects and spend breaks together on the fountain's lip. 

As for Nadia, she never lets herself say it's enough, but she feels gears click into place.

* * *

The bane of Julian's existence seems to be Mercedes and Melchior's refusal to befriend him.

"Ilya, you're going to get your hand chomped off if you don't give up. I mean it," Portia says as she distracts the dogs with chamomile cakes.

He whimpers. "I'm making progress! It took longer than usual for them to start growling at me!"

Nadia rolls her eyes. It's not as if it's his only opportunity to bond with an animal. One day, while she walks in the gardens, a familiar screeching raven careens through. A guard fights him off with similar screeches. The raven swoops down toward Nadia, who lifts a hand.

"Calm yourself," she orders. With manic flaps, the raven slows and lands on Nadia's arm. She strokes his head with a finger, lifting an eye at the stuttering guard as the bird becomes subdued. "Should you not be keeping an eye out for intruders?"

The guard runs off. Julian runs up. "Malak, I told you I was moving in, I said it would be fine—I'm sorry, he gets antsy around guards. And when he doesn't know where I am. And, uh, at air?"

"I see. Well, it's lovely to meet you properly, Malak. You're a handsome bird, aren't you? I'm sure you'll fit right in."

Malak preens, making her laugh. Julian grows redder than his hair.

Strolling in the gardens with their birds becomes routine. Nadia has the gardeners plant some of the wolfsbane Julian loves, despite their concerns about its poison. The garden’s magician places a protective charm around it and ensures it’s not far from Nadia’s lavender patch, creating a natural path for them to follow. Malak flies jerky circles around Chandra until she coos for him to follow her. Nadia chuckles. Usually, watching Chandra soar above her makes her wistful, but being grounded is not so bad with good company.

When they get spare moments inside, Julian’s vielle accompanies her organ. They begin to compose a piece sliding from bouncy to elegant. An undertone of melancholy comes through, and if he stops playing to wipe away a tear, she is graceful enough not to mention it.

People gossip, of course. Unless she has to defend his honor, she lets them. She will not let anyone tell her to avoid a trusted advisor, let alone an old friend.

Besides, they once chose to forget each other, something that becomes more unfathomable as the days pass. Isn’t it natural to keep him close, where they can make up for lost memories? His open shirt is only a bonus.

There are times when they waltz in the ballroom, his touch warming her through while the celestial ceiling leaves stars in his eye, that she knows she is lying to herself. But marriage has not been kind to her, and he has, and there is much else to discuss.

* * *

When her prophetic nightmares ended, Nadia expected an end to her headaches and long nights. Instead, politics cause her headaches enough, and nightmares of the past plague her. She twists in her covers, throws them off, and paces. She tries to continue the day's work without rest, and practices her tinkering with the same problem.

Once her chambers become unbearable, she roams the halls in her robe and slippers like some sort of ghost. A shadow. Never again would she fill that role, she promised, but without the clack of heels on the tile she might as well be floating.

She's quite solid, she finds when someone bumps into her. Her instincts from Nahara's training kick in, and she grabs their arm.

"I'm sorry, Milady, Nadia, my apologies, I—"

She releases her grip. "Julian. What are you doing, running around at this hour?"

In the torchlight, he scratches his neck. "Just, ah, making the rounds, you know. Not sleeping."

There’s not enough light to gauge his complexion, but she can imagine it. "Care to join me on the balcony, then? I assume we both could use some fresh air." She rubs his arm in awkward apology.

The air does help, clearing her mind of dust that only exists inside it. The stars wink at them, heedless of their troubles, and somehow the jauntiness reminds her of him. Seeming to register her attire, he looks away. Amused, as he looks just as rumpled, she nonetheless crosses an arm over her robe.

"Beautiful night," Julian murmurs. The moonlight reflects off his ghostly pallor. Before she can comment on it, he turns to her. "Are you all right? Headaches, nightmares?"

"Both. I assume you speak from experience?" she asks. He grimaces, but her intuition tells her she's right, even as he denies it. It shows her something else: a vision of his quarters as he sees them, with swirling ashes and spectral groans. She rubs her forehead, feeling the magic etched there.

"Are you all right?" he asks again, more alarmed.

"Of course, Lucio's old quarters," she whispers. "I should have realized that wing would make you uncomfortable. I shall arrange for better."

Looking stricken, he shakes his head, like he doesn't want to ask how she knows. "Oh, no, I've slept in a crate on a pirate ship, this is the height of comfort. We've really spruced up the place, you know, it's much less gaudy and dusty. Besides, Lucio can't be haunting it anymore. Right?"

"He's quite gone. Did something make you think otherwise?"

He shifts for some time before muttering, "The curtains rustle."

"I'll have the magicians take a look."

"Oh no, please, I'm sure it's just the wind."

"I won't mention your name. Routine checkups are a prudent part of pest control, are they not?"

His shoulders relax. "Thank you."

"In the meantime, you should still have more comfortable arrangements."

Any reason for them to shiver in separate beds turns to dust. Before he can defer again, she takes his hand. His mouth opens wordlessly while she removes his glove, holding his gaze for signs of displeasure. She finds none, only the flutter of his pulse in his wrist. With a manicured nail, she traces his murderer's brand, and he shivers.

"Nadia—"

"Shall I stop?"

"No, no, please—"

"Begging already?" she asks, finding the lines of his palm. His head dips.

"Uh."

She lifts his hand to her lips, kissing the brand. It's cool against her mouth. "Let's head inside and get you warmed up.”

* * *

He's as responsive to her touch as he is to her every need.

She's as delighted as she is unsurprised.

* * *

Afterward, they lounge in bed amidst tasseled cushions. His hastily found robe doesn't fit as well as hers, but she's hardly complaining. She keeps tugging it over his shoulder before thinking better of it. 

He looks at her with a thousand times the wonder he gives anything else. Even the Golden Goose he pours doesn’t seem to faze him with his eyes trained on her, his red sclera shining like a ruby. The full force of it makes her glow.

She curls her fingers under his chin, and he bends toward her. Rather than meet him, she holds him there to study every inch of his adoring face and mussed hair. She would smooth it back if it didn't mean erasing the evidence.

Discussing it could break the spell, or—just as nerve-wracking—set it in stone. But knowing him, he won't bear the silence for long, and she'd rather let her curiosity lead.

"Have you wanted this for a while?" she asks. Perhaps not the best start; already, she feels too vulnerable.

His throat bobs. "It's hard to say. I mean, I just assumed anyone who got to be near you would notice how impressive you are. That didn't mean I thought I'd actually get to..."

She lays a finger over his lips. "I have exclusive taste, it's true." She winks, and he blushes for the hundredth time that night. Its thoroughness fascinates her.

"Did you—then, can I ask..."

She strokes his jaw. "Anything, Julian."

"I would understand if, well. I tend to make people impulsive, and you don't owe me anything."

Her movement stops. "I do not open up to just anyone, Julian. My days of choosing a partner on a whim are quite behind me."

"Then..." He takes in a breath, then two. She understands his concern. He is still a member of her court; she will have to arrange for him to leave before the servants come. She's made it as clear as possible that he is under no obligation to be here, though if anything he struggled to contain his enthusiasm.

"Then, you actually like me?" he finishes.

She stares at him before bursting into laughter. "I should hope that would be obvious!"

"Hey, you're, I'm," he splutters. She pats his cheek.

"You have been of immeasurable support to me. You're loyal, and as dedicated as I am to righting past wrongs. Besides, the thing you are most terrible at is buttoning your shirt. I do not see a downside."

He props himself up on his elbow, letting his robe slip down. "And here I was trying to look half-decent for your lunch guests. You should have told me."

He grows serious as he reaches for her, hovering in silent request before stroking her back. She sighs into the touch. It brings her out of her head and into the moment, affirming that she’s here, that she’s cared for. How long she went with everyone terrified to bump her for fear of retribution.

He must understand. She caresses the skin by his red eye. Until tonight, she hadn't realized he still looked sick; it's probably not an impression people want of their doctor.

"You're even lovelier in my full vision," he says when she mentions it.

"It's truly functional?"

"Good enough to man a crow's nest. The eye patch just adds to my roguish good lucks."

"You needn't worry about alarming me, you know. I would hope that, unlike in the past, we don't need to hide from each other."

"In that case..." He chews his lip. "Do you know when I realized I was in too deep?" 

"Do tell. Which feat of mine impressed you most?"

"When you asked me to 'cut the rug.' In the tavern," he clarifies at her confusion. It doesn't help.

"What? Why then?"

He laughs. "Who can say?" His soft, earnest kiss asks for nothing.

"That must have made our dance interesting."

"The best night of my life, I thought, and then what do you know?"

"I do seek to best myself." As she pulls him closer, a thought strikes her. "That's why you were so frightened after our little skirmish."

His hand ghosts over her arm, even though Salim’s healing left no scar. "I, I thought it was my fault for getting too involved. I couldn't bear to see you hurt."

"There's no need to worry. I hear there's a famous doctor willing to take excellent care of me."

"Oh, in that case, he had better give you only the best," he says, and kisses her again.


	4. When the Seasons Change

They do sneak him out before dawn, even though he seems desperate for another drink to pour or pillow to fluff. When he doesn't show up to breakfast, she finds it easiest to act as if nothing happened. Her concern grows after the food goes cold.

"Haven't seen him. Do I need to give him hell?" Portia asks.

"No, I only thought he shouldn't miss the frittata."

Portia looks unconvinced, but Nadia brings a plate of food to the library. As expected, she finds him there, hunched over a mess of papers. She checks behind the bookshelves for eavesdroppers before approaching. When she clears her throat, he jerks his head up, then back down.

"Milady," he mumbles. "Sleep well, I hope? No headaches?"

"We are alone, Julian." To her disappointment, that only seems to make him more nervous. "If I've overstepped, or made you uncomfortable in any way..."

"No, no, it's not you. I wasn't sure I could act normal at breakfast. Or that I wasn't dreaming." This last part, he whispers. She sets down the plate and touches his arm.

"I hope you thought it was a good dream."

He softens. "Best I’ve ever had."

"We should take caution today. Will you meet with me this evening?"

His usual cheekiness returns. "Why? Is it time for your checkup already?" She shakes her head before leaving him to his work.

* * *

They are cautious, perhaps overly so; with how much time they already spent together, the dance to not be too close leads people to wonder if they had a spat. A lover's quarrel, to those who have long since made assumptions.

It can't last long. He is more attentive to her than ever, and she catches herself adjusting his hair. Luckily, the only ones around are Aisha and Salim, who only smile. It’s not like they would have room to talk—not for the first time, drawings of Aisha slip out when Salim gathers his diagrams. The private way she looks at him no longer makes Nadia wistful.

They do tell Portia; it seems unfair not to, and they can trust her to cover for them if need be. Though she doesn't look surprised, she seems to mull something over.

"We both value your opinion, you know," Nadia says.

"That's just the thing. You’re my two favorite people, and I don't—oh, I don't know who I'm supposed to give a talk to!" Portia throws up her hands. The flowers that had danced in the air flop to the ground. Julian picks them up while she turns her attention to him. "Ilya, you know what I'm going to do to you if you hurt Milady, but you should _also_ know you need to respect and cherish her and brush her hair with exactly a hundred strokes—"

"I was hoping you'd still handle that part," Nadia says with a laugh. That seems to relax Portia.

"Oh, you bet. And Milady, you should know, I'm sorry in advance if my brother does something stupid."

"Hey," Julian says.

"What, did you think I was going to threaten her, too? Get real!"

The flowers drop again as the siblings begin a wrestling match, and Nadia looks on with amusement.

* * *

The balcony becomes a favorite spot, as it’s the most private place with fresh air—not to mention the one where Nadia first took Julian’s hand. She refuses to let him scale the wall or recite speeches from the ground, but they risk kisses in daylight, and she sets up a table so they can have tea and play chess.

It affords a view of the gardens, laid out from above in geometric patterns and complementary colors that Nadia finds satisfying. Perhaps the seasons will change, and they’ll still be up here together to watch.

For now, they spy Portia with her teachers. A patch of flowers turns from purple to orange; when Aisha gestures, they change back. Nadia moves her cat-shaped piece forward. “Portia seems rather determined to learn gardening magic, even though she’s animated more plants than she’s grown.”

“You didn’t hear it from me, but there might be a lady involved.”

Though this isn’t a surprise, it’s news, and most intriguing news at that. “Oh?”

“Oho. Works in the gardens, knows all the best tavern songs. I’m not to interfere by punishment of death.”

“Yes, interfering seems unwise.”

“It’s just, I also know all the best tavern songs, including a few ballads that would create a nice atmosphere.”

“Punishment of death, was it? Fear not, Portia is already most impressive.”

He taps a piece against the table as he scans his possible moves. Finally, he sets down the snake with a clack. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done to impress a potential partner?”

The less said about the horse riding tricks Nadia attempted in her youth, the better. The stable girl in question got enough laughs out of it. “I’m also already most impressive. I would ask the same of you, but Asra told me about the lion incident.”

“He _what_.” His face stretches before scrunching. “Wait, I don’t remember that one.”

“Shall I regale you with it, then? You were snooping around the coliseum—”

“Oh, yep, nope.”

Nadia sets down her fox. “Checkmate.”

* * *

With Asra home from his trip, it doesn’t take long for his ever-curious gaze to slide between them. While they don’t mean to hide from him, it takes a while to get him alone. When he’s not glued to his beloved, his parents overwhelm him with questions, or Portia asks for advice. Finally, his partner participates in one of Portia’s plant magic lessons, and Asra joins Nadia and Julian on a pillow pile.

“I would suggest another splash in the fountain, but we probably don’t need to work up the rumor mill,” Asra says. Julian coughs.

“Er, about that,” he starts. Nadia saves him the trouble by bringing his knuckles to her lips. “You really need to stop beating me to that, dear.”

“Then you must take more initiative,” Nadia says. Asra watches them with amusement, his mouth full of pastry, though to her relief he seems approving.

“I’d tell Ilya not to give you too much trouble, but I assume you have everything handled.” Despite his teasing tone, his eyes hold a genuine question.

“Naturally. And you? I trust you did not let a whole vacation pass without proposing?”

Asra almost chokes on his next bite of pastry. Julian thumps his back, seeming just as invested in the answer.

“It has to be perfect,” Asra mumbles.

“Oh, don’t be silly, you could wrap a worm around their finger and they’d say yes,” Julian says.

Nadia groans. “Please, no more worms.”

The afternoon continues with too much merriment for Nadia to point out the crumbs on the pillows.

* * *

As the weeks pass, they speak with nobody else, though they give themselves little concessions. He drapes her shawl around her shoulders before they head out on their walks, and he escorts her by the arm deep in the hedge maze. She claims headaches in the morning when she'd rather feed him in bed than eat with everyone.

One morning in the library, he wraps an arm around her and cocks his head toward the corner. She presses him against the shelves, winding her hands in his hair and muffling him with her mouth. Rather than releasing, the pressure between them climbs, like the ivy that reaches to the arched ceiling.

Footsteps approach. They break apart too hastily. He knocks them both through one of the palace’s portals, landing them outside.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “I’m so sorry, I—”

In no mood for his apologies, she separates from him and straightens her dress. “Of course these portals wouldn’t go both ways. Come, we have work to be doing.”

He follows at her heel, unable to get her to turn, though she is more cross at herself than at him. Wasting time is bad enough; they could have been caught, even injured. In flashes of intuition, she sees the slope down which she could slide if she grows impulsive with him. An apathetic haze, a city in disarray, a man leeching the attention of all around him.

Back at the library, she has to dismiss all thoughts but work, though she can’t ignore his constant glances. She only returns them when appropriate.

Well after dark, he slinks into her chambers with a pot of tea brewed to aid sleep. “Er, Nadia? I just wanted to let you know I finished compiling those documents, since we didn’t, ah, get to it earlier.”

Did he not leave the library when the rest of them adjourned? The bags under his eyes paint a stark picture. She gestures him over and pours him a cup of tea despite his protests. Like he expects her to jerk back, he takes her hand with care, making tension slip from her shoulders. She mistook anxiety for a premonition. Neither of them would let the city fall for their pleasure, and whereas her former husband’s ‘generosity’ fell short of giving up anything, Julian gave his life.

She kisses his throat, and his breath catches. Though he likes roughhousing, she’s gentle against his pulse. Once, she let others whisper in her ear that he deserved his fate, that the people would cheer it. She decides for herself with his heartbeat in her lips.

In the daytime, she tells herself that’s the reason she won’t mention him when others bring up her lack of consort. It’s clearly on their minds regardless. She can't tell whether sneaking around makes a difference. People already talked, and while smudged lipstick is avoidable, their good moods aren't. 

Sometimes, she thinks it would be easier if they went public, after promoting his position accordingly. They wouldn’t have to worry about risking everything. He wouldn’t have to sneak out before morning; as things stand, they only wake up together when they’re shaking in each other’s arms, covered in sweat from nightmares. They could face the day together along with the night, their future along with their pasts.

But one evening, she hears a voice in her chambers and catches him reading to Chandra, and such a peace pervades her that she doesn't want to risk upsetting it.

* * *

An upset comes when her parents and Nazali announce an upcoming visit. The chance to see his mentor excites Julian so much that Nadia shuts herself in her contemplation tower to process the news.

After reflection, she admits their last visit went fine, despite her worries—Vesuvia’s progress impressed her mother, and her father's jokes caused no real problems. The anxiety bubbling in her breast like a cauldron owes itself to her personal developments. Though the relationship is new enough to not require an announcement, it seems best to get her parents and Julian used to each other.

“You want me to meet the empress and her consort? Me?” he yelps when she mentions it. More quietly, he adds, “Your parents?”

“They also happen to be Nazali’s parents. I hoped they might do us a favor and introduce you.”

“Oh. Of, of course.”

In case he misunderstands, she lays a hand on his arm. “I thought this way would put less pressure on you, but it is your choice.”

It relieves her that he takes a minute to mull it over.

“I’ll do it,” he says. “So, er, I don’t suppose they have a favorite party game?”

She tries to stay reasonable in her rundown of the visit, but with each detail the cauldron threatens to overspill.

* * *

Her parents’ arrival sends the palace into a frenzy. Guards stand on high alert, servants arrange lavish guest rooms and prepare a feast, and nobles spin fresh strands of gossip. Trying to keep up with her work in the midst of it all, Nadia can barely check on Julian and has to assume Portia has everything covered.

Her father's hug nearly crushes her. “It is good to see you, too, Baba,” she manages through the pellets lodged in her throat. Her mother fixes her shawl, close enough to catch a whiff of patchouli.

"You’re glowing, my dear," Nasrin says. Even now, her approval flusters Nadia.

After greeting her, Nazali slips off to find Julian. He'll convince them to bring him to dinner. In the meantime, Nadia sends her parents' things to their rooms and gives them a tour of her commissioned art.

Julian appears in the red silk to which he's grown attached, his shoulders as straight as a prince's after his initial bow, although he doesn't hide his nerves. Watching Nazali present him to their parents makes Nadia's heart twist. She doesn't have time to contemplate if she should have done it herself.

"We've heard Nazali's stories," Namar says with a smirk. Nadia has to stop herself from rubbing her temples. _Of course_. They know him as the hapless apprentice of his youth.

"He is my court physician, and most dedicated to his post. Vesuvia is lucky to have him," she cuts in. Julian flashes her a grateful look; horror had clearly dawned on him, too.

He doesn't escape those stories, as over dinner he and Nazali take turns describing the aftermath of an old battle. Nadia tries to switch the topic to their more recent work, but of course Julian can't resist a good war story, and when he has only himself to blame she turns to her mother.

"Is the food to your liking?" she asks. She had agonized over whether to serve her parents their favorite dishes or local specialties. Ultimately, the kitchens weren’t equipped to do more elaborate Prakran dishes justice, and she used the opportunity to showcase Vesuvia’s poached seafood.

"It is. I can tell your staff is well trained. Namar, dear, let the poor man eat."

"But I need to know how one steals an elephant," Namar says.

"It wasn't stolen, exactly," Julian mumbles. The excitement of entertaining seems to have made way for nerves, and his plate is indeed full.

"You've sort of met the elephant, anyway," Nazali says to their father. "She birthed my wrinkly friend."

This plot twist delights him so much that Julian gets to eat a forkful of eggplant, faster than he normally would in present company.

"Don't choke, Ilya. I've used that maneuver on you enough," Nazali says. "Remember when you swallowed those thistles?"

"I'd rather nobody did while we are all eating," Nasrin says.

"Yes," Nadia adds, "Ilya might appreciate a reprieve from remembering things for two seconds." Her wording doesn't hit her until Nazali and Julian both give her funny looks—them curious, him stricken. She's never called him Ilya. To her horror, her face heats. _Not now_.

"That's just more ammunition I get to save for later, then," Nazali says, and changes the topic, to Nadia's relief—though the double meaning isn't lost on her. If only she were dining at Mazelinka’s, with no need to take such care.

She manages to get through the rest of dinner without incident. Portia even presents dessert on a floating tray, to Nazali's enjoyment.

The first moment that Nadia gets alone, Nazali approaches her, and despite how they've always been one of Nadia's favorites, she braces herself.

There's no teasing in their tone. "I'm glad to see you with Ilya. He's a rowdy apprentice, but a good man."

"He's my physician." It’s useless to say, but the reaction is as automatic as she is tense.

"It's true, we princesses always gives our physicians personal introductions." The arch in their brow is all too familiar.

"I'm Vesuvia's countess. I don't need to copy other princesses."

Nazali claps a hand on Nadia's shoulder. "I'm only teasing. I'd never cause problems for Ilya. He gets into enough trouble on his own."

Nadia relaxes slightly. "Quite."

* * *

"They hated me," Julian groans from the pile of pillows he's buried himself in. After retiring for the night, Nadia would prefer to sleep for a week, but she stays up to reassure him.

"They did nothing of the sort. Baba would have talked to you all night if Mother hadn't insisted on sleep. As for her, she can seem severe, but I promise I noted no disapproval."

He half-emerges. "Are you sure?"

"Quite." She reaches into the pile to rub the back of his neck, working out knots.

"Do you think that would change if they, uh, knew about us?"

She continues to rub, partly to soothe herself. "If it did, I wouldn't pay it any mind. My parents can't dictate who I marry."

That causes him to lurch out of the pillows. "Marry? You want to get married?" He's loud enough that she dearly hopes nobody is outside her door. Not for the first time that day, her face flares at her slip.

"I don't want to rush into it again." She doesn't need to elaborate. His shock transforms into concern as he scoots over with his arms held out. She rests against him and closes her eyes.

"This is enough, if you want it to be. I'm... I'm here for you. That's what matters," he says. The words ring foreign. It would be easy to soak that in, but she knows what it's like to have a neglectful partner, and she refuses to be one.

"It also matters that I'm here for you. I realize you have higher stakes, given our positions. If naming you my consort takes that pressure off, I shall do it."

He doesn't respond to that right away, continuing to give her a place to lean like it's holding him up as well. "I... I don't know. Marriage, yes, that sounds wonderful someday, but me? A count?"

"A prince," Nadia corrects. His throat bobs against her temple.

"I'm not suitable."

"And why not? You're popular with the people, you've a talent for public speaking, and your skills complement my own. Plus, even naming commoners to my court seems to have made me more approachable. Honestly, if I were smarter, I would have promoted you already."

"Even if that were true—and uh, that really remains to be seen—you shouldn't have to pick a consort that way just because you're a countess."

She leans back to study his earnest face, finding someone who always sees her as a person, a friend, rather than a figure—and who would follow her to the ends of the world regardless. Cupping his face, she draws him into a deep kiss, satisfied when he melts into it. She presses him down against the pillows.

"I want this side of you to myself," she says. "Here, in private, where I’m nobody else’s queen.”

"Oh," he breathes. "I'm yours." Everything about him radiates that he means it. She strokes his hair.

"I do not want to remain selfish. One day, I will settle everything. Do you mind waiting?"

"As long as you need." His lips quirk. "After all, I _am_ your court physician. Isn't it only right I court you?"

"You say that as if you aren't _being_ courted.”

"Ooh, yes, that one, I like that one."

She leans down again to prove her case, and as always, he responds.


End file.
